


The Nail that Sticks out (Gets Struck)

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Detroit Red Wings, Discipline, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kneeling, Kneeling Universe, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, Rules to Happiness, Stereotypes, Swedish Saying, mentoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 03:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4419005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nik reminds Gus of the importance of a Swedish proverb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nail that Sticks out (Gets Struck)

**Author's Note:**

> This is something of a companion piece to "Know Another Language," but it can stand on its own.

“Den spik som sticker ut bir slagen. (The nail that sticks out gets struck.)”—Swedish proverb translated into English. 

The Nail that Sticks out (Gets Struck) 

Practice today had been a nightmare, Gus thought, as he collapsed onto his lumpy hotel bed. Even shutting his eyelids—which felt as heavy as if they were made of concrete—couldn’t black out the memory of his shame. His ears, red as burned bacon strips, still rang with Coach Babcock’s acerbic shout. It had been during one of their battle drills when Babcock had barked at him after he had lost what Babcock plainly defined as one too many puck possession skirmishes along the boards in an effort to avoid a crushing check from Smitty, “How soft can you be, Nyquist? Are you an egg or a hockey player? Take a hit to make a play, damn it!” 

Gus’ compete level had been hovering between empty and low before Babcock had snapped at him, but Babcock’s words had caused him to flare up like dry grass encountering a lit match. He had retorted—and hated being Swedish since it made even his loudest shouts sound like little more than mumbles—something to the effect of how it was a lot softer to be a spectator and poke holes in everything everybody else attempted to do. Unfortunately, his Swedish shout-mumble must have been audible to Babcock, because he had glowered at Gus with more fury than a pillaging army and then had ordered Gus to do fifty push-ups there on the ice in full equipment. 

Gus’ arms, which felt weak and stringy as spaghetti still ached from that cruel and unusual punishment. Although Gus’ eyes were closed, he could feel tears welling there as he remembered how all his teammates tried not to stare at him, though they must have seen his humiliation even if they pretended not to since it would require a blind and deaf person not to notice it, and Detroit had no one who fit that description on the roster. 

Not wanting to be in his hotel room with only a horrible memory that would surely prevent him from getting a good night’s sleep as uninvited company that had already worn its welcome out, Gus pushed himself out of bed. Opening his eyes, he slipped out the door of his room, locked it, and trudged down the hallway, grateful for the plush carpet that muffled the sound of the flip-flops he had slid into after climbing out of because he didn’t wish to attract attention to himself right now by the noise of his footwear slapping against the floor. 

Halting outside Nik Kronwall’s door, Gus took a deep breath—overcoming a sudden desire to flee—and rapped the knocker. 

“Coming!” Nik’s voice cut through the maple door, and a moment later, it swung wide to reveal Nik dressed in gym shorts and a T-shirt. 

“You’re supposed to use the peephole to check that I”m not a mad axman come to lob off your head,” chirped Gus, innocent as a dove. “Security 101.” 

“Most murders are committed by people the victim knows, not strangers.” As if they were not discussing his gruesome demise, Nik shrugged. “Anyway, you’re too small for me to see out of the peephole. I’d think teammates were pranking me, and nobody was actually there.” 

“Very funny.” Haughtily, Gus brushed past Nik into the hotel room. “Jokes about my height are definitely not as old as black-and-white films.” 

“Don’t get short with me. You don’t make a bit of sense when you’re angry.” Nik grinned. “Now, since I’m sure you didn’t drop by just to get teased about your height, what did you come to see me for, Gus?” 

Swallowing a frog that had abruptly leaped into his throat as he realized exactly what he had come for himself, Gus choked out, “Could I—um—kneel for you, Kronner?” 

It wasn’t such a weird request, he told himself. Even if he was a sophomore, not a rookie, he had knelt for Nik before during his call-ups from Grand Rapids when he stayed at Nik’s house and sometimes during his rookie year after Hank’s back had gotten screwed up at the Olympics. Sure, he might have knelt for Hank more often, but he had knelt for Nik, too, and Nik had always been more disposed to offer comfort than Hank, who was more inclined to provide discipline. Right now, all Gus craved was affection and reassurance. 

“Of course.” Nik patted Gus on the back before crossing over to the upholstered lounge chair beside the window. Tilting his chin at the bed, he added, “Pick whatever pillow looks most comfortable and come over here.” 

Studying the hotel pillows dubiously, Gus asked, “Can I take more than one?” 

“Go crazy.” Nik waved a palm in permission. “Build a mountain of pillows so big you wouldn’t be able to feel a pea if you’d like.” 

“Thanks.” Snatching up the two pillows that appeared fluffiest and most likely to shield his knees from the impact of the floor, Gus walked over to stand before Nik. Then, afraid he would lose his nerve if he didn’t move quickly, he hurled the pillows—one on top of the other—onto the floor and crumbled to his knees at Nik’s feet, which he observed for the first time were tucked into slippers as crimson as blushing cheeks. 

“Relax.” Nik rested his hands on Gus’ temples as though in a benediction. “Tell me what’s got you all tied up in a knot.” 

“Babcock.” That one name was all Gus could manage, but somehow Nik understood enough to continue the conversation.

“He has that effect on a lot of people.” Nik’s fingers were combing through Gus’ hair as if trying to untangle the knots in Gus’ brain that way. “He really ripped into you today, huh?” 

“Yep.” Woeful as a whipped puppy, Gus gazed up at Nik. “He said I was soft. That’s like calling Pav enigmatic. Fuck him—Babcock, I mean, not Pav, obviously.” 

Nik was quiet long enough for Gus to figure that he didn’t relish the soft Swede stereotype either, and then he said in a surprisingly steady tone, “Look, Gus, Babs didn’t mean that the way it came out. He’s not—you know—a racist. It’s not like we’re being coached by Don Cherry or something.” 

“Maybe not.” Gus’ jaw clenched in defiance, because he wasn’t soft, no matter what Babcock believed on the contrary. “Or maybe he has just convinced everyone that he isn’t because he likes a few Swedes—you know, some Swedes who are different from all the other bad, soft Swedes.” 

“Don’t be paranoid.” Nik’s fingers stopped traveling through Gus’ hair. “With Babs, if you want to get all you can out of his hard-ass coaching, you’ve got to listen to what he says and ignore how he says it. He was just informing you in his particular way that you’ve got to win more puck battles. That’s all. Don’t take it personally.” 

“Don’t take it personally,” Gus repeated this mantra and found that it stuck like glue in his mouth. 

“Yes.” Nik resumed his ministrations to Gus’ hair. “Everything he says and does is purely professional. The instant you start assuming any of it is personal, you set yourself up for a ton of misery and stress. That’s why the first rule for a relatively painless relationship with Babs is don’t take it personally.” 

“It’s hard not to, Kronner,” whispered Gus, biting on his lower lip so forcefully that he wouldn’t be shocked to discover a bruise there tomorrow morning when he brushed his teeth. 

“I know.” Nik’s hands were massaging the nape of Gus’ tense neck. “Sometimes I forget, too, and I shout back at him like you did, but it never does any good. It just makes him madder and meaner. That’s probably rule number two for a positive relationship with Babs: don’t shout back.” 

“It’s not fair.” Gus’ lips curled in resentment. “He shouldn’t be able to muzzle us like this.” 

“That’s life. He’s the coach. We’re the players.” Nik gave a half smile. “It’s like that old saying you must have heard before. The nail that sticks out—“ 

“Gets struck,” finished Gus, feeling more numb than he ever had under the influence of Novocain as the weight of that ancient aphorism hammered into him with the inertia of a bowling ball slamming down all the pins in a strike. It meant that he could try to fight, but he would lose. It meant that he could try to speak, but he would be silenced. It meant he had no real voice or power to change things. Finally daring to exhume the corpses of rumors the Red Wings probably liked to believe had been buried long ago, Gus pressed, “Was that what happened to Filppula and Hudler? Did they stick out too much?” 

“They chose to leave because they found better fits elsewhere.” Nik’s crisp manner made it clear that this was first and final inquiry he planned to answer on this topic. “ That’s their right. Ken Holland wasn’t going to keep them in a bondage here or something. Nobody is forced to remain here against their will, Gus. Everyone who is here wants to be, and that’s how it should be.” 

“I didn’t mean that I want to leave.” Gus ducked his head. “It’s just it would be easier with a different coach.” 

“Sometimes difficult things are worth doing.” Nik squeezed Gus’ shoulder. “You have a coach who makes you work hard. That’s a good thing.” 

“Ouch.” Yelping, Gus dislodged himself from Nik’s grip. “Careful with the shoulders, Kronner. They’re hurting right now.” 

“Babs really did put you through your paces today.” Clapping Gus on the back, Nik commented sagely, “It’ll make you stronger.” 

Uncertain whether Nik was referring to physical or emotional strength, Gus changed the subject. Rubbing at his cuticles, he remarked, “I have no idea how the hell I’m going to face everyone tomorrow.” 

“Sulking isn’t a style anyone can rock,” chided Nik. “Just go into practice tomorrow with your head held high and act as if Babs never tore it off. Probably everybody will have forgotten the incident anyway, since it’s a big deal to you, but not to anybody else. It’s like how you care when you have a bad hair day but nobody else gives a damn because they have better things—like their own hair—-to worry about. Also, just as we all get bad hair days, we all get yelled at by Babs sometimes. Nobody is immune to that, so no one can laugh at your situation.” 

“I guess he really does give everyone an earful at one time or another,” Gus agreed, beginning to feel more optimistic about his chances of not being laughed out of the locker rom the next day. 

“Sometimes he even yelled at Nick Lidstrom.” Nik chuckled at the astonishment that sank like a curtain at the end of a play across Gus’ features. “I remember one time he flipped out at Nick because he made a pass that was less than perfect at practice.” 

“Speaking of Nick—“ Gus shot Nik a sidelong glance since he was well aware that what he was about to ask was as socially impaired as demanding what sins a Catholic had confessed to a priest—“you told me once that you used to kneel for him. Did he ever make you kneel without pillows if you were rude or stubborn?” 

“No.” Nonplussed, Nik shook his head. “He’d just adopt his best I’m-not-angry-just-disappointed air, and his disappointment was about a million times worse than his basically undetectable anger, so I’d fall in line.” 

“Hank made me kneel without pillows once when I was being rude and stubborn.” Gus gingerly stroked kneecaps that seared at the recollection and decided to answer the question that Nik had been too polite to ask since Gus siad he wanted to kneel for him, “I was feeling rude and stubborn tonight, and I didn’t want to kneel without pillows. I figured that you wouldn’t be heartless enough to put me through that torture, but I wasn’t so sure about Hank.” 

“Now that I know that’s what you need, I might very well do it in the future, you imp, so be careful,” warned Nik, but Gus thought—or perhaps just hoped—that he was joking.


End file.
